hted
by still more lamps, though here all were of chased silver.

At the far end, four dim figures were visible. Black faces peered in
wonder. The Legionaries caught sight of giant simitars, of fluttering
white robes as the figures advanced.

"By Allah!" a hoarse shout echoed. "Look, Mustapha! The Feringi!"

In the shadows at the other end, the amazed Maghrabi swordsmen
hesitated one precious moment. White-rimmed eyes stared, teeth gleamed
through distorted lips.

These gigantic _mudirs_, or Keepers of the Treasure, had expected the
opening of the door to show them the Feringi, indeed, but preceded by
Bara Miyan and surrounded by men of Jannati Shahr.

Now they beheld the dogs of unbelievers all alone, there, with guns in
hands, with every sign of battle. They had heard sounds of war,
from without. Their dull minds, slowly reacting, could not grasp the
significance of all this.

"The Feringi, Yusuf," cried another voice. "And they are alone! What
meaneth this?"

"_M'adri_" (I know not), ejaculated still another. "But _kill--kill_!"

Their attack was hopeless, but its bravery ranked perfect. Their
shouting charge down the chamber, sabers high, ended in grunting
sprawls of white. Not half-naked like the low-caste Maghrabi outside,
but clad in Arab fashion, they lay there, with Legionaries' bullets in
breast and brain.

The Master smiled, grimly, as he walked to one of the bodies and
stirred it with his naked foot. He swung above it a silver lamp he had
pulled down from the wonderfully arabesqued wall.

"Four scimitars added to our equipment will be useful, at close
quarters," he opined very coolly, unmindful of the dull uproar now
battering at the inner door. "Pick up the cutlery, men, and don't
forget the admirable qualities of the _arme blanche_!"

Himself, he took one of the long, curved blades. The major, Leclair,
and Ferrara--an expert swordsman he had been, in the Italian
army--possessed themselves of the others.

Bohannan whistled his scimitar through the air.

"Very fine I call it!" he exclaimed, with a joyful laugh. "Some little
game of tag, what? And our Moslem friends are still 'it!' We're still
ahead!"

"And likely to be, till our friends bring powder, mine that door, and
blow it in!" The Master added: "We've still a few minutes--maybe more.
Now, then--"

A shrill cry in French, from Lebon, drew all eyes away to the left of
the small chamber.

"_Voila_!" the lieutenant's orderly was vocif